Reevaluation of Reincarnation
by MalicetheMenace
Summary: Sherlock and John's first contact since the great detective fell from grace. The pair never had normal days, but they try to return to their older lives as best they can. just because Sherlock is alive, it doesn't mean that things aren't still broken.
1. Chapter One: An Escape of Sorts

"Sherlock." Mycroft breathed, looking over at his brother who fidgeted anxiously on the couch with his eyes closed, no doubt lost deep in thought. Sherlock ignored him, numbers and words flying past his closed eyes as his brain searched for a distraction outside his brother's neatly organized summer home. "Sherlock." Mycroft tried again, mild agitation slipping into his voice.

"What, Mycroft? If you insist on visiting me weekly to keep me company, could you try to annoy me less? It would be much appreciated, I assure you." Sherlock replied, noting that Mycroft's frown wasn't one of displeasure or annoyance. Umbrella wet, but closer to dry. Must've started raining while he was in the car. Probably a longer drive, considering his suit creases were beginning to fade by his higher hip and back of the forearms. No suitcase today, which means there can't have been much work he needed Sherlock's advice on, and he seemed to put together and calm To have just finished a big project at work.

"Fine. What is it?" Sherlock offered sarcastically, refusing to let on that he was a little curious as to what Mycroft wanted to talk about.

"We caught the last one a month and a half ago. I didn't tell you because you would've gone straight to him, and wouldn't have even thought about the possibility you were wrong."

"Obviously, I wasn't wrong." Sherlock snapped, jumping to his feet and striding into the bedroom he had occupied for 18 months now. "I agree to solitary confinement, no going outside the house unless I'm with you and body guards, disguised, and even then only over the gardens. I don't text or call anyone, and my activity on the computer is monitored by you. Then, when you admit that you need my help if I ever want to get out of this house again, you refuse to let me see anything that isn't video recorded or from a photograph. I haven't left this estate for over a year, Mycroft, and on the slight precaution of a possibility of my error, you left me here another six weeks. Six weeks of wasted time." Sherlock shot sentence after quick sentence from his room at his older brother, who seemed uncharacteristically guilty.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It was for your protection. I didn't doubt you, only that the limits we set up around you might impair your... Vision." Sherlock paused in the bedroom, replaying Mycroft's apology in his mind. He pulled on a button up shirt, and made a face when he realized that he had somehow gotten skinnier since he last wore it, having no one around to make sure he ate regularly and having no cases that required leg work, he hadn't been building much muscle either.

He strode out of his room fully dressed and stared at Mycroft.

"Why do you care? Why now?" Sherlock asked without anger, genuinely curious as to why Mycroft was being so sincere.

"Since it became advantageous." Mycroft admitted, smiling sadly and tilting his head.

"I thought caring wasn't an advantage." Sherlock retorted, waiting for an explanation.

"It seems that like most things, it is an advantage when played correctly, and a disadvantage when used incorrectly. You caring for Dr. Watson saved his life, while my indifference to your livelihood killed you, in a sense."

"My friendship with John was also the reason he was targeted. Wouldn't that count as a disadvantage?" Sherlock stated logically.

"On john's part, perhaps. On yours, no. I do believe that the doctor saved your life enough times to prove that he was your advantage."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before turning to Mycroft and studying him with piercing blue eyes. "Shall we be off, then?"

Mycroft nodded curtly and stood. "Right. We'll alert Ms. Hooper at Bart's so she can stop her fussing. Then we must convince the record keepers that you are, in fact, not deceased. My people will take care of the paperwork, but you will have to provide them with a blood sample. As will I, of course. Then we must see Scotland Yard, tell them the story and provide them with tangible proof, provided, again, by my people because your name has been slandered. We might need to resort to the queen's pardon, but that shouldn't be too hard. Obviously, if you are to return to the public as a 'consulting detective' as I'm sure you want to do, we will need to set up a press conference." Mycroft smiled, pleased with the thorough list he had been organizing for the past six weeks.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, picking up his violin and taking his coat from the hall closet. Blood clung to the sleeves, neatly removed from his veins hours before he fell and placed in frail bags around his body, ready to burst on impact. His collar was also stained, the blood from his broken nose pooling around his head. "We can do all that tomorrow." He finished with a sly smile playing on his lips.

"No, Sherlock. We start today." Mycroft growled.

"No, today I go home." Sherlock stated, no room for argument in his voice.

"No, Sherlock. If anyone sees you going into 221B today it will be somewhere in some paper tomorrow, and that would ruin everything."

"Then make sure I'm not seen."

"This is ridiculous Sherlock."

"I'm not going to have him find out I'm alive through the telly! I _owe_ him that." Sherlock yelled, turning on his heel and coming face to face with his brother. "You say he is my advantage," He continued, softer and more urgent. "Then I am going to need him for everything." The brothers locked eyes for a moment, as infinitely intelligent conversations passed silently between their eyes, the genius lost on the rest of the world.

"Tomorrow. I'll arrange a car for you and the doctor then. As I seem to remember, he rather enjoys the rides I send him on." Mycroft relented, regretting his earlier choice of words. "But no later."

"Obviously." Sherlock smirked as he turned, and left the empty house for the last time.


	2. Chapter Two: Stopping by for Coffee

"He isn't home right now." Mycroft called after Sherlock as he raced around his old flat, his eyes flying over the new additions and subtle changes that screamed at his senses. He went to his old room, and paused, frowning at the logical steps John had taken in the past 18 months to move on from Sherlock's death. His room had always been empty, save for his closet which held a number of different clothes even though he normally only wore three, but all the furniture had been removed and probably discarded, and the walls had been painted. There was no one staying there, apparent from the lack of bed and furnishings, and the infamy of Sherlock's reputation had taken its toll on John's chances of finding another flatmate, had he been looking. But the lack of Sherlock's possessions in the room made him linger in there, feeling a new attachment to his things that he had never cared for before they were gone.

The rest of the flat had changed drastically, at least to the two brothers. It was clean, swept and dusted regularly. The kitchen had plates and cups to serve far more than two, and was void of all Sherlock's scientific tools. He didn't expect body parts to still be in the fridge, but he didn't expect it to be well stocked, save for milk and a few other 'nessicary' items, along with their pantry. The skull and his knife were still on the mantelpiece, though the cigarettes and his notes were missing. His desk had been cleared, all the papers put neatly into cardboard boxes labeled 'SH' in John's neat but boyish scrawl. In spite of all the changes, Sherlock smiled to himself when he saw that his target practice face on the wall had not been removed.

"He won't be gone too long." Sherlock replied. The coffee in the new coffee maker was set to be ready in 5 minutes, and Sherlock estimated they had about 2 minutes before John came home, if he was, in fact, getting milk and cream for the coffee. Sherlock sighed, sitting down in _his_ chair across from John's, and lifted his violin from its case. "I never thanked you for retrieving this for me." Sherlock added, drawing the bow across the strings and producing a single clear B flat.

"It wasn't easy. He wanted to keep it too. I believe the only reason he let me have it is because he hoped it would make me feel guilty. He, of course, insisted on keeping the scores." Mycroft sighed, staring at the small pile of papers that sat on the musical stand by the open window, letting the late sun pour into the flat and surrounding the stand prettily.

"Did it work?" Sherlock asked, his chair welcoming him comfortably like an old friend. Mycroft frowned, and took a seat at the cleared off table, unwilling to glare his brother down for the privilege of sitting in the doctor's assigned seat. Minutes passes in still silence, Sherlock fighting the urge to drift off into his mind, knowing that he wouldn't snap out at the familiar sounds of John's footsteps coming up the stairs. Five minutes passed. Then two more. Something was keeping John longer than expected. Wasn't too urgent, he can't have gone far while his coat was still draped over his seat. Sherlock smiled at the image of John yelling at the automated checkout again.

"I think it would be best," Mycroft interrupted him. "If you stood in the door of your old room when Dr. Watson arrives. We don't want to shock him unnecessarily, especially if he _does_ have the groceries in hand." Mycroft stared pointedly out the window then back at Sherlock. Sherlock quickly stood up, a moment of anxiety flashed in his eyes. He nodded, unable to argue with his brother, and strode to the doorway of the empty room just as the sound of the downstairs door opening reached their ears.

"Thank you so much for bringing me along, dear." Mrs. Hudson's voice praised.

"Not a problem. Couldn't have you carrying all this by yourself. I needed some cream for my coffee anyway." John replied politely. Sherlock smiled.

"With your shoulder and my hip, we do make a wonderful pair." Mrs. Hudson rambled, and both the brothers in the upstairs flat rolled their eyes.

"Yes. Yes we do." Sherlock could hear both the smile and the sadness in his friend's voice. "I'll see you later, Mrs. Hudson. Goodnight."

"Goodnight dearie." The older woman replied, shutting her door. Three footsteps ascended the stairs before pausing, and Sherlock heard John sigh.

"Mycroft, you could just call me. You don't have to be sneaky if you want to talk to me." John called up as he climbed the rest of the stairs and entered the flat.

"How were you so sure it was me? It could have been anyone who tracked dirt into the flat. You should be more careful, Doctor." Mycroft chided.

"Well, you have a key to the flat, and your umbrella was in the holder." John retorted. Sherlock fought the urge to laugh. "Well, what is it?" John continued, the kitchen door opening and the pantry slamming as John put his few groceries away. He plopped down in his chair and must've motioned for Mycroft to sit. "Oh just sit, Mycroft. You already sat there, you can tell. It hardly matters anymore, does it?" John sighed. Sherlock frowned.

"Doesn't it?" Mycroft replied, still standing. "John, we really must talk."

"Yeah, well I got that much, thanks."

"It's about my brother." There was an edge of annoyance in Mycroft's voice. He liked being talked down to about as much as Sherlock did.

"Mycroft… look, it hardly matters anymore. What's done is done and we all need to move forward." John added, a new edge to his voice.

"That's exactly what I'm trying to do, doctor. Now spare me the mental health advice and please, listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?" Mycroft seethed with controlled anger, and John seemed to sense it.

"Very well. Continue." John said simply.

"You and I both know that Sherlock did not 'make up' James Moriarty. Or at least you did the last time we spoke. Do you still know that, Doctor?"

"Excuse me? What is the point of this?"

"Do you still believe in Sherlock Holmes?" the silence after Mycroft spoke was quick, and Sherlock found himself holding his breath.

"I… I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand. Did… did you clear his name?" john asked, sounding a little hopeful. "That's it, isn't it? You have proof then? Tangible proof?"

"We do. We were going to go about releasing the news today, but someone thought that you deserved to know first." Mycroft smiled politely. "They also thought that you could help, given your friendship with my brother."

"Yes. Yes, anything." John sat forward in his chair. "Who is this someone, then? This bloke? Someone I know?" He asked.

"Quite." John waited for Mycroft to say more, and when he didn't, John stared.

"Mycroft. Who is it?" John asked, and Mycroft said nothing again. "Stop it. What are you doing?" He asked again, a hint of hysteria rising in his voice. Again, Mycroft stayed silent. "Mycroft, don't. Don't do this. Please tell me who it is."

"John, I need you to remain calm."

"No."

"You and him are good friends."

"Stop it."

"John, it's-"

"NO. I saw him fall, Mycroft. Sherlock Holmes is dead. He is dead, Mycroft!" John yelled. Sherlock could only imagine that he stood.

"As I remember you telling me, you were clipped by a messenger. Whatever you saw was only partly the truth." Mycroft contradicted.

There was a long silence, John's heavy breathing being heard all the way to the room Sherlock stood in.

"Where is he?" John asked finally. Mycroft didn't say anything. He must've looked toward the hall, because his quick heavy footsteps led right up to the open doorway to the empty room Sherlock stood in.

"John."


	3. Chapter Three: OpenHeart surgery

"John." Sherlock spoke slowly, analyzing the doctor for the first time in a year and a half. Recent haircut, maybe two weeks ago. Put on a small amount of weight, but not as much as Sherlock had lost. Shaved this morning, non-electric. He had slept well, and had been for a while, there were no red eyes or bags underneath them. The shirt he wore had been put on quickly, could've been a knock on the door from Mrs. Hudson, but more likely because he left last night's date early this morning. That explains the excessive amount of coffee he had been drinking that day. Hence the lack of cream in his fridge and a sizeable amount of sugar still left.

"Stop it." John breathed, and Sherlock glanced at his face, a little startled to be yanked out of his deductions, having almost no distractions for far too long. His friend's eyes were wide, and his hands hung limp at his side.

"Right." Sherlock shifted his weight onto his other foot and waited. John closed his eyes, and knitted his eyebrows together. His head tilted and his lips pursed, as his fist was brought to his mouth. He opened his eyes and stared at him. Lines creased in his forehead, making him look angry. John took a deep breath.

"How- No, don't!" John snapped when Sherlock opened his mouth to explain. "You don't get to show off for this. You're not going to be cocky and arrogant and so unbelievably proud of how you pulled it off. Not this time." John took a few steps forward into the room. "Are you proud, Sherlock?"

"Proud to still be alive, yes, I am. Proud to be able to walk into my flat after almost a year and a half, knowing that I could very well be six feet under, quite. Proud that my actions prevented both of our deaths, very proud indeed." Sherlock quipped, turning his head to the side and shrugging his shoulder indifferently.

"Yeah, that's bloody fantastic. Glad to hear it. Been a good year then, has it? Been solving your cases on your own then, discreetly making everyone's problems go away?" John yelled, only a few steps away from Sherlock.

"In fact, No."

"Oh, good. I'm wrong, as usual. What did I miss this time, then?"

"I told you, our first case together. Remember? The frai-"

"Of course I bloody well remember! Is that it then? Got tired of not having a blogger about to keep you sane?" John interrupted, pushing Sherlock back with both hands on his chest. Sherlock remained speechless as his stumbled backward. "Where have you been?" John yelled, taking a step forward, keeping the same distance between them. "Where the hell did you go that was so important that you had to die to do it?" Sherlock said nothing, and John balled his fists around Sherlock's shirt and pushed him against the wall. "Well?" John growled.

"I knew that after all I put you through, after the danger my line of work put you in and the amount of care you put in to keeping me alive… and for being my only friend… I knew I owed you much more than just saving your life. Which, in fact, entailed my death, by the way. You said I owed you a miracle, and while I still have yet to prove they exist, let alone produce one for you, I remember you saying that you would also like me to still be alive. I found that I, too, would like to live out my years, and I found it easier to give you your miracle while I am still breathing." Sherlock let his sarcasm and sincerity mix graciously, watching as his friend's expression failed to change. "John, this rather hurts."

"Good." The doctor replied before roughly letting him go and taking a step back. They stared at each other in silence before John's chest heaved. They both had little time to express shock when it happened again, and John felt his composure slip and crumble away. "Oh, god." John's voice cracked, and he bent his head, bringing his hand over his eyes to hide his face. John trembled occasionally, as Sherlock stood across the room, eyes closed and face racked with guilt.

"John, if there were any other way, I promise, I would have found it and taken it. None of this was fun, or interesting to me. It was nessicary. It was surgery." John looked up at the mention of surgery, allowing Sherlock to explain himself. "Separating flesh for a long enough period of time to fix an underlying problem, so that the whole body does not die. Eventually, if surgery goes well, the cut is sewn back together."

"Really? And what kind of surgery was this?" John asked, his voice wet and tight through the drying tears.

"Originally, I thought maybe it was open heart. But if I found that there was a nessicary amputation that needed to be made…" Sherlock straightened himself. "I wouldn't have come back."

John thought for a moment. "Did you just refer to me as a potential severed limb?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.

"On the contrary, I referred to you as the amputee." Sherlock smiled, and John fought a giggle.

"Oh really? What limb would I have lost then?"

"Why your right leg, obviously."

"That's nowhere near heart surgery."

"Nor is the right leg near the shoulder."

The two men succumbed to a fit of laughter, and John sunk to the floor in the doorway, his legs giving out from the pure exhaustion of the strange array of emotions running through him. Sherlock strode across the room and sunk down next to him. They turned and studied each other a moment before Sherlock frowned. "Is Mycroft still here?" He asked quietly. John turned and poked his head out of the doorway.

"I don't see him, but I think so." He turned back to face Sherlock. Sherlock nodded once and stood before offering his hand to help John stand. John took the hand without thinking, but paused when their flesh made contact. He stared at the elongated fingers in his rough military hands and felt the dull warmth that they gave off. "You're not dead, then." John stated simple, looking up at Sherlock with a look that his tall friend couldn't comprehend.

"It would seem not yet, no." Sherlock pulled John up off the floor and the two stared at their hands clasped together in the grasp people use when pulling someone off a ledge they dangled over. Sherlock's eyebrows knit together, unsure if he should hug his friend. Hugging Molly or Mrs. Hudson was different, they were women and hugged often. John was different, and yet he and John had gotten closer than two male friends usually did. Then again, nothing was usual between the friendship of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Sherlock didn't have time to contemplate it for too long, because John pulled him closer, trapping their hands between their chests. John arm wrapped around Sherlock easily, neither going around his neck nor underneath his arm, but comfortable around his arm and torso. Sherlock smiled and did the same, letting out a long held breath of content.

"I see you two have bonded already." Mycroft joked. The friends pulled away and distanced themselves a bit in front of the man. "Well, I can see that I am not needed here anylonger." Mycroft turned to leave.

"Hang on," John stopped him. "You let me grieve all this time, all this time you knew. Why not tell me?" He asked the older man. Mycroft stared and John's hand on his forearm, and John let him go.

"For the protection of both you and my brother." Mycroft stated simple. John stated at him, not accepting the one sentence that Mycroft offered. "Sherlock will fill you in, no doubt. I'll be sending a car tomorrow. It will be a very busy next few days, I do hope you don't have anything planned." Mycroft added before walking out of the flat and out the door right as a government car pulled up to 221B Baker street.

"Right. Tea, then? I believe your coffee has grown rather cold, anyway." Sherlock offered his hand to let John through the door first.

"Sure. And biscuits, too. I could almost wrap my arm around you whole... Oh, god. Sherlock, I have no idea what to do right now." John's head fell into his hands, and after a moment he looked back to Sherlock, as if to try to contemplate why he was still here and not a hallucination.

"Well, I've learned to make a rather good cup of tea, so you can sit." Sherlock smiled.


	4. Chapter Four: The return of the heroes

"Hand me the lighter?" John asked, stacking three pieces of word over some newspaper in his fireplace. His fireplace? No, _their_ fireplace.

_** God, is this strange. I've only just started calling it mine, and here I have to change it back again. **_John thought as he bent over the brick and balanced the logs. He paused, and his eyebrows knit together. _**Is this still our flat? Is he going to move back in? Or is this still not a safe place for him?**_ John worried, unwilling to let the worry wander far from the technicalities of Sherlock's rise from the grave. He had been doing well for a long time now. He had lost, and he had grieved accordingly. At least, to what he thought was accordingly. It wasn't like there was anyone else in the world in his position. No one had ever been a friend to a man like Sherlock Holmes, partly because Sherlock had little friends, but mostly because there was no man in the world quite like Sherlock. Maybe John's methods of grieving were a little conventional, in some ways, but in many aspects they were quite unique, like their relationship. He rarely cried. He hand count all of _ times in the past year and a half he cried over Sherlock Holmes.

Once, over his body on the pavement outside of St. Bart's hospital. The second time, over Sherlock's grave. He had said more in that moment by the headstone than he had originally intended. It wasn't that he had planned a speech for his dead friend, but more that he felt there were things that he needed to tell the man. The third time he cried, it was in the office of his old therapist. He had been alone that day. He was on edge, lonely and he felt… in danger. Like he was capable of exploding and talking the whole of London with him. He called an hour ahead and made the appointment, barely aware that he was doing it until he put the phone down. He didn't weep or sob during the session, only a few droplets that escaped his eyes as she pressed him to speak more about Sherlock. He didn't know they were there until he felt their streaks grow cold on his cheek.

The fourth time had been angry, steams of hot tears pouring down his face as he yelled and kicked over Sherlock's chair in the apartment. Papers had started to accuse him of murdering Richard Brooke before he had leapt, and Lestrade had called to ask him a few questions. Even though the inspector heavily hinted that this was being forced upon him and that he didn't think of John as an accomplice in the slightest, John still called him a few rude names and hung up on him without waiting to hear what the questions were.

The fifth, had nothing to do with Sherlock at first. It was three months after the funeral. He had grown tired of the mess that seemed to engulf the flat. He brought up the boxes that Mrs. Hudson had been saving for John when he was ready, and he began putting glass instruments into them from the kitchen. Absently, he cut his hand on renegade scalpel, causing him to jerk his hand back and onto the corner of the counter. John screamed a curse, and felt oddly better. He screamed again. He ranted for a few moments, walking and knocking things over as he did. He gasped for air, unaware of how angry he had felt for such a long time. He looked down and saw that he had, in his blind rage, thrown aside Sherlock's chair. It lay cold discarded and disheveled, and John smirked, remembering that it was exactly how he would've described Sherlock upon their first meeting.

The sixth time John Watson cried over Sherlock Holmes was when he stood in his bare room, a year and a half after Sherlock had been buried. He was skinnier and much paler, but it was unmistakably him.

Sherlock stared into the pantry while John built the logs up in the fireplace. Someone visited John regularly. Things were stocked in the fridge that John didn't usually care for enough to carry. Most likely a woman, a singular woman, who cleaned and cooked for him often. Dishes were done, counters and fridge scrubbed, but not particularly regularly. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson, most likely a younger woman, due to the more advanced cleaning tools that probably lay beneath the sink. She was shorter than John, and apparently a good cook because she cooked more often than John. The more frequently used ingredients were placed on the middle shelves for easy access, while the more rarely used ones were placed just a little out of reach for her, but not for John and certainly not for Sherlock.

He heard John ask him absently for a lighter, and Sherlock retrieved it from the drawer and set it on the tray next to the tea and biscuits, before bringing it over and setting them down lightly on the small table by their chairs. Sherlock extended the lighter towards John, who reached behind him and took it without looking at him. They both sat, and John absently poked at the fire with the long iron rod from where he sat. He set the poker down, and leaned his head against his fist, staring at the young fire that had sprang to life in the dimming light that was quickly abandoning the flat and the rest of London. He looked at Sherlock, moving his eyes but not his head or neck, and simply stared. He didn't study or attempt for figure his friend out as he often remembered trying to do, and Sherlock felt that he were no more than another object one fixes their eyes on when they are really lost deep in thought.

"You've got questions…" Sherlock prompted slowly, refusing to feel uncomfortable in his own flat. _It __**is**__ still my flat, isn't it? _Sherlock wondered.

"Bloody hell," John said under his breath. "Yeah, I've got questions."

"Then ask them." Sherlock said simply, doing his best to slip into the normalcy he recalled having between him and John.

"Why ask? Why make me ask? You already know what I want to know." John punctuated his question with slight hand gestures.

"You said you didn't want me to show off. So you can control the conversation. I haven't changed all _that _much since I've been gone." Sherlock replied offhandedly.

"You have if you're opting out of showing off." John pointed out. Sherlock's face tightened in mild annoyance with john's impeccable logic. John felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, and immediately reassumed his stoic expression. "Fine. You said, back there, that you're f-" John paused momentarily, unable to say the word. "That what you did saved both our lives. How?"

"It was jump off the roof of the building, or you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson would've been shot." Sherlock explained with steadily controlled emotion.

"Well, that's better than what I had been thinking this past 20 minutes." John admitted, still dumbfounded that Sherlock had gone into hiding to save his life.

"What had you been thinking?"

"The usual. Clever idiot Sherlock Holmes risking his life to prove he's clever."

"Sounds like me."

"Didn't that day.'

"Ah, the phone call." Sherlock looked away, a hint of guilt settled across his features.

"You do realize that Mycroft sold you out, right?" John asked. Sherlock looked up, a little startled.

"Of course _I_ know that. How do _you_?" Sherlock sat forward and did another quick once over of John, finding no evidence that his friend had acquired or developed the same sense of vision Sherlock and his Brother shared.

"Mycroft told me, before we got to St. Bart's. That's where I went, when you left me outside Kitty's apartment." John explained. "Is this how you always feel? Knowing things other people don't?"

Sherlock ignored the joke. "Mycroft never told me you knew that." He complained out of the corner of his mouth.

"Would it have changed anything?" John asked. They both knew the answer, neither feeling the need to say that it wouldn't have changed a thing.

"Right. So you jumped off, knowing that you weren't going to die-"

"I didn't know that I wasn't going to die. I was rather aware of my chances of surviving, I had planned ahead and raised them, but it was never 100% that I would survive that jump." Sherlock interrupted. John paused for a moment, speechless.

"And, if you had died?" John asked after a moment.

"I would be dead, and you would've continued with your life as you were doing before I showed up here this evening. Next question."

"How."

"Barely a question." Sherlock complained. John shot him an exhausted glare, and Sherlock smiled at the familiarity that had finally presented itself in their situation. "Molly produced the corpse, and-"

"Hang on. Molly, _Molly Hooper?_ Molly Hooper knew all this before I did?" John asked incredulously. "Am I the only one who doesn't know?"

"Molly produced the corpse," Sherlock continued. "I had enough blood, some mine, some just my blood type, hidden about me. I originally landed on the labor truck stopped just in front of the pavement I was found on. Broken nose, and a mild concussion, dislocated left shoulder and a broken rib, I had just enough time put a small rubber ball underneath my right arm to fake a still pulse and roll onto the pavement out of the bed of the truck. I had expected you to see this. There were no other people on the street at that particular moment, save you. But you weren't there to see it, were you?" He asked suddenly. "You were clipped by a bike messenger?"

"Building blocked my view. I didn't see him coming. That's what you meant. 'eyes on me'. You didn't plan on me being kept in the dark." John thought. "If you didn't plan on me not knowing you were alive, why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"It worked out for the best. This way was safer, in the end." Sherlock stared into the fire.

"Right. Right." John stammered, unsure of what to say next. They remained silent, sipping their tea and staring into the fire. After a long amount of time, a thought occurred to john.

"How did you know I said those words? That I said 'miracle'. I was talking to a headstone."

"Well, it was _my_ headstone."

"You attended your own funeral? Sick bastard." John laughed.

"Well there were hardly enough guests as it was." Sherlock chuckled.

"you heard everything then? Everything I said?"

"Yes."

"Right."

"John-"

"You don't have to say anything, Sherlock. It's fine. You said enough," John nodded to the hallway. "Back there." Sherlock nodded.

"Mycroft is sending a car? Why, I thought you were in hiding?" John asked.

"I'm done with hiding. Tomorrow I need to take care of the business of coming back to life. Hospital, Scotland Yard, press conferences… not excited for that last one, but it is nessicary." Sherlock whined.

"Shouldn't we go there now, see Lestrade? Let him know you're alright?"

"No."

"He's your friend too."

"He'll know tomorrow. Tonight I want to stay home."

"I could call him over."

"He'll know soon enough, I'd like a quiet night my first time home. I doubt there will be much of one after tomorrow."

"Fine. What about Mrs. Hudson?" John asked.

"What about her?"

"When does she get to know?"

"Not today."

"Sherlock." John's voice was firm, and insistent. Sherlock made a face. "You listed her, too."

"She'll be in hysterics. Crying and hugging me…" Sherlock complained, making a face.

"Yes, that generally happens when people aren't dead."

"How would you know?"

"Sherlock!"

"She'll be angry!" Sherlock tried, knowing he would lose this fight.

"_I_ was angry. She'll get over it." John refused to let this go. Sherlock paused.

"You were? Hmm." He looked back into the fire.

"Yeah, why?" John asked.

"Me and Mycroft had a sort of bet going."

"And?"

"He seemed to think that you would punch me."

John smiled smugly. "Well, he's not wrong yet." The fire cracked and popped, warming the small flat. the light outside shrunk away, leaving the room and the rest of London darker. It grew quiet outside, the people stepping into their homes to eat their supper and talk with their families or watch telly, unaware of the return of the Reichenbach Hero to 221B, Baker Street.


	5. Chapter Five: Composing the Counterpoint

"John?" Sherlock asked from the kitchen. The doctor stood, staring at Sherlock from their den, eyes wide, and a little confused. "John… It's me?" Sherlock's heart fell a little. "John, last night, I came back. Remember?"

"I'm not stupid, I remember." John answered, his voice annoyed, but his demeanor still blank and expressionless. Sherlock did a quick once over, noting that John had slept well besides the fact that he still wore his clothes from the day before. He walked up to his friends, apparent concern written across his face.

"John? I-" Suddenly, Sherlock was seated on the floor, his nose bleeding and his eyes watering from the unexpected, yet not too intense, pain. "What was that for?" He demanded.

"Didn't want to disappoint Mycroft." John yawned and stepped over Sherlock to get to the kitchen. "Tea? Oooph!" Sherlock grabbed a hold of the doctor's foot and pulled, sending John face-first into the tile.

"Tea would be lovely." Sherlock stood and dusted off the front of his shirt. "Hand me that rag, there?" Sherlock pointed, tilting his head back and plugging the top of his nose.

"Not broken, is it?" John asked, picking himself up and tossing a dishrag on the bleeding detective. Sherlock caught the rag without looking and held it to his face.

"Not in the slightest." His voice muffled in the cloth. John smirked to himself. "John, I can't help but notice-"

"Oh, really? That's not like you at all…" John interrupted.

"That you've been taking all this far much better than I expected. I'm aware you know what lies ahead of us today, and that it may be hard, and I completely understand if you want-"

"I'm coming with you."

"Fine. But I offered."

"Fine. Well?" John asked, crossing his arms and sipping his tea from a plain mug instead of the delicate cups he kept in the cabinet.

"Well what? We have time to prepare; Mycroft won't be sending a car for another hour." Sherlock asked, furrowing his brow.

"An hour should be a perfect amount of time." John set down his cup, and caught Sherlock's eye with a stern unwavering stare. Sherlock stared back, confused for only a moment before he slumped his shoulders and turned away from John, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

"This really isn't nessicary…." Sherlock moaned, roughly picking up his violin and bow, placing the instrument on his shoulder in compliance with John's unspoken command. "I doubt she's even awake."

"She likes watching the morning news. I join her, occasionally." John contradicted, pleased with the annoyance that Sherlock expressed in John knowing better than him. As if on cue, the television downstairs murmured up to their flat.

"Fine. What do I play?" Sherlock asked.

"You never take requests."

"I do on special occasions."

"Play something of your own. She could just assume something familiar was a recording."

"Why would she do that?" Sherlock asked, pausing his bow just before it hit the strings.

"It got boring without you. Stop stalling." John's ears reddened. Sherlock guessed he was becoming irritated, but it seemed more likely he was embarrassed. Sherlock took a deep breath and gently dragged the bow across the tightly pulled strings, moving rhythmically to the melody that seemed to generate from out of nowhere. Sherlock allowed himself to get a little lost in the calm thought process that his violin often provoked, gently aware of the surroundings and his remaining senses.

John took a deep breath and braced himself while Sherlock turned his back swiftly on a fleeting note as the downstairs door opened tentatively. The television switched off, and slow faint footsteps began climbing the seventeen steps up toward the music.

"John, dear, is that the radio? It sounds a lot like… Oh." Mrs. Hudson's smile lingered, while her eyes looked from Sherlock to John, completely confused. Even though his back was turned, it was hard to miss the telltale stance and air of confidence that often surrounded the man.

"Lovely tune…" She mumbled, before squeaking and fluttering her hands about her face as she ran down the stairs and slammed the door. John followed briskly after her while Sherlock continued playing, ignoring the sounds of John knocking and calling to Mrs. Hudson in a concerned tone.

"Let her be, John. She'll be alright." Sherlock put the violin down, the music dying instantly along with the unique concentration it invoked in him.

"Let her be? Sherlock, she's an old woman, what if she…?" John trotted up the steps, aware that the car could arrive at any minute and he was still not dressed properly for the day.

"She's strong, John. She's survived much more that you give her credit for." Sherlock sat on the back of his chair, twitching anxiously while he waited for John.

"You're not changing?" John asked, pulling on his Jacket as he emerged from his bedroom.

"There are all the clothes I've got here, it would seem." Sherlock muttered.

"It not like we imagined you would need them. Gave 'em to charity." John defended.

"It's fine. It's not like anyone else would notice." Sherlock waved the conversation away. John nodded, and moved the curtains apart, turning quickly away at the sun that streamed in.

"Bloody…" He muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes. "Car's here. You ready?" John looked to Sherlock, his chin raised confidently, though he waited for Sherlock to react before he completely blocked out the nervousness that threatened to overtake him.

"Yes." Sherlock stood, his face set and determined. The two men descended the flat, john locking the door behind him. He turned to catch up to Sherlock who had beaten him to the bottom of the stairs, and rapped gently on Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Be back later. Don't wait up." He called softly, before turning quickly on his heels and jamming his hands into his coat pocket. "If you would, John." Sherlock motioned for John to open the door first. John nodded, and stuck his head out the door before rushing Sherlock into the black car that awaited them.

"Right. Where to first?" John asked glancing out the heavily tinted windows. Mycroft sat across from the two friends, checking his watch.

"The hospital. They've been informed of your arrival, and as soon as we both give a blood sample, we'll visit the mortuary to alert Ms. Hooper that her silence on the matter is no longer nessicary." He replied, his mouth twitching disdainfully. "Honestly, Sherlock, if you had just asked me for help in the first place you could've avoided telling that woman altogether."

"If you hadn't sold him out, he wouldn't have needed her help." John shot back aggressively. Sherlock, who had been staring at the passing buildings, gaped at John. Mycroft glared, and sat forward, his hands folded.

"And what would've happened if you never left him alone at the hospital that day?" Mycroft seethed.

"That's quite enough." Sherlock commanded at the two with collected force. John blinked, and sat back, embarrassed by the random burst of anger that had seized control of him.

"Sorry." He offered.

"My apologies as well." Mycroft replied, quickly donning his usual impassive countenance.

The rest of the ride passed in a tense silence, though not completely uncomfortable. The car stopped in the garage of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The three left the car quickly and shuffled into an elevator with two tall burly men that Mycroft seemed to recognize. They rose to the third floor, and exited in an almost military formation. Mycroft led the way, with Sherlock right behind him. Both guards stood on either side of Sherlock while John tailed dutifully behind.

Sherlock raised his coat collar, and even thought material was dark, bloodstains were clearly noticeable from behind.

"Jesus. Sherlock, did you _have_ to wear that particular coat today?" John asked, sweeping his eyes over the few staff members that turned to stare at the small ensemble that rushed down the halls in search of a particular hospital room unknown to John and Sherlock.

"Even if I had a change of clothes, which I don't, I would still have no other coat but this one." Sherlock stated, unbothered by state of it. John frowned at the stains, but said nothing more about it. They entered a larger medical room with only two chairs and a small team of doctors. Mycroft were ushered to sit down on the chairs next to each other and roll up their sleeves. The brother's eyed each other resentfully, both blaming the other for the sting of the large needles that were silently stabbed into their veins. John shifted uncomfortable, feeling that he was missing out on some unspoken conversation. The doctors left the room in a hurry, saying nothing. The brothers stood and reformed their hurried blockade towards the mortuary.

"Oh." Molly breathed timidly when the group burst into the lab.

"Hello, Molly. No need to worry, it's all being taken care of today." Sherlock smiled politely as they passed the spooked girl hurriedly. John waved, but continued following Sherlock closely. They left through the other side of the door without stopping or saying anything more.

"Okay." She breathed, confused and alone once more in the comforting silence of the dead.

"That's all we're going to say to her?" John asked.

"We can make it up to her later. All stop for coffee, the four of us." Sherlock replied, entering the elevator to take them once more to the garage where their car and driver waited.

"What," John laughed. "You, me, Molly and Mycroft? Seems more like a punishment."

"No, I mean you, me, Molly and whatever woman has been cleaning the flat for you. Is she a friend, or more? I sincerely doubt it's Harriet." Sherlock replied innocently.

"Oh, we aren't really serious. More friends than anything. You might like her, she's pretty clever." John shifted on his feet.

"Sounds… fun." Sherlock did little to hide his sarcasm.

"You're the one who suggested it."

They left the elevator and the guards and departed again, this time to the police station. Mycroft informed them that they would be there for a while.

"No doubt that after the entire station is aware that Sherlock is, indeed, alive, the press will show up on their own accord." Mycroft smiled. Sherlock groaned, and John smiled to himself as the rest of the ride passed quickly. This time, as they step out of the car, no body guards came to walk them in. Sherlock froze in front of the building, his eyes sweeping over the architecture and the memories the sight induced. John placed a hand on Sherlock's back and led him toward the building soundlessly as Mycroft followed, murmuring into his phone.

Gasps and mumbled curses followed the three as they walked by, straight up to Detective Inspector Lestrade's office. John could see through the shades of the window that Lestrade was arguing with Donovan and Anderson, and most likely getting nowhere. "Let me start this one. I believe it's my turn anyway." John opened the door and slipped in, being careful not to reveal Sherlock in the doorway. The office became quiet, and the three stared at the doctor.

"John?" Lestrade asked, blinking in surprise. John nodded once at the Inspector, and ignored the other two in the room, who gawked at him. "What… What are you doing here? And who the hell is that?" John turned and realized that Mycroft had followed John into the room, and was now tapping his foot impatiently.

"Oh, this is… this is Mycroft Holmes." John stammered.

"Holmes? As in…?" Donovan asked, looking towards her boss for answers.

"Yes, there are two of them." John answered when Mycroft did not.

"You mean another." Anderson corrected. The room turned to stare at Anderson, stunned by his indignance.

"Pardon?" Mycroft asked.

"He means there is _another_ Holmes. Not two. Not anymore anyway." Anderson replied, not realizing the damage he was doing.

"Really Anderson, and I thought _I_ was the sociopath." Sherlock stood in the open doorway, a bemused expression on his face. "Hello Inspector. Long time no see."


	6. Chapter Six: Running the Next Lap

"No hellos? Bit rude isn't it? I've only risen from the grave…" Sherlock joked arrogantly. Lestrade looked toward John for conformation, and john raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders slightly before nodding. Mycroft made a noise in his throat, clearly impatient.

"John, I'm aware my little brother wanted you with him for this whole fiasco, but would you and the two… others… be so kinda as to give the three of us some privacy?" Mycroft asked, forcing a polite smile at Donovan and Anderson in the corner, taking turns to stare at Mycroft or Sherlock. John opened the door and looked at the two pointedly, before following them out diligently.

"What the-"

"Who was th-"

"But he's dea-"

"How is this po-"

"OI!" John bellowed, punching the wall next to him for emphasis. Donovan and Anderson had started a quick-fire succession of questions at him, closing closer around him as they pressed him for answers to questions that they kept cutting each other off of. The two seemed to forget him momentarily when muffled shouting seemed to come from the office they stood outside. Lestrade had stood, and was taking turns shouting furiously at Sherlock and his brother.

"Why did he come here, of all places?" Anderson asked, crossing his arms as he watched through the window.

"The same reason he faked everything. The same reason he fell. He gets off on foolin' us." Sally replied, disgust apparent in her voice. She turned to John, as if suddenly aware of his presence. "You. Why didn't you tell us he was alive _ages_ ago? I should arrest you for harboring a fugitive." She narrowed her eyes.

"I only knew since yesterday." John said absent-mindedly. Lestrade had sat back down in his seat, and was listening intently to the two brothers talk.

"He's dangerous. He can fool us all like that, constantly, and now he's back." Anderson muttered, annoyed and frightened.

"He doesn't care about you." Donovan said, and John turned to stare at her. "Let me take one guess. Has he even asked you what your life has been like? Has he asked anything about you since he appeared on your doorstep, or has it all been about him?" She asked, putting a hand on her hip. "Just because he told you that you two were friends doesn't mean he gave a damn about you. He needed you. He needed someone to believe him, to create that blog of yours. And now he needs someone to believe in him again, so that maybe others will believe in him again too." She turned away from John, and glared at the tall man who was speaking to Lestrade, his head bent in apology. She pointed her finger at john as she stared at the glass and spoke. "Anderson is right. He's dangerous, and he shouldn't be allowed to just walk away from everything. He's still a fugitive, and now he faked his death. I'm arresting him weather Greg-AHH!" She screamed as John twisted her arm behind her back.

"You won't go anywhere near him, and you bloody well aren't going to arrest him. You won't talk to him, you won't look at him, and you won't come to our flat. You will stay far, far away or I _will_ kill you." John promised her, looking once toward Anderson who was too cowardly to do anything but stare in horror.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, breaking john's murderous train of thought. "Let go of her arm. Now!" He yelled again, and John complied. John opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He stumbled away from Sally Donovan, who held her wrist to her chest and cowered behind Anderson, speechless and as far away from Sherlock Holmes as possible.

"I…I'm…so s… I'm…" John stuttered, before turning sharply and storming away from the group. Sherlock glanced at the sad pair of policemen and rolled his eyes.

"I always tell you to shut up, but you never listen." He commented before waltzing gracefully but hurriedly after his friend. "John!" He called, catching up to the man in the elevator and placing a hand on his shoulder. "What happened?" he asked, searching his friend's face for answers.

John was silent for a moment, staring at the elevator floor as if he were disappointed in it. "She was going to arrest you."

"She can try." Sherlock scoffed, straightening himself. "and even if she had succeeded, Mycroft would've ruined her career in a phone call." He added with a half-smile. "But you know that. So why did you get so upset?" he turned to John, concerned.

"I don't know." John said quietly, leaning against the elevator door.

"You yelling at Mycroft like that in the car… assaulting Donovan… this isn't like you, John." Sherlock prompted patiently. John didn't respond, and stared at the bright fluorescent lights about them. Sherlock stopped, and knew that John understood what he was getting at, for once.

"How else do I act?"

"Less protective."

"I could say the same about you." John fired back, before taking in a sharp breath and recovering. He hadn't acted like this in years. Before Sherlock, while he still limped around London silent and lonely, he snapped angrily at people when the mean no harm.

…_I'm not the John Watson you know…_

_ …Damn my Leg!..._

He inhaled again, and looked at Sherlock. "Nothing happened to me, Sherlock."

"What?" The detective asked, taken aback by the random statement.

"After Afghanistan. Before I met you. Nothing happened to me. Then things happened. I had things I could do. I had a reason to get up and I would've had a reason to sleep if I ever had the time to. I ran with you, Sherlock and even if we didn't have anywhere to go I still followed because, damn it, I was running again. Then… it all stopped. Things stopped happening. It was infuriating. I could finally run again, but all of a sudden I had no reason to. No one to follow, nowhere to go. Nothing happened to me. Again. But this time was different. This time I didn't have any bloody cane to lean on." John looked down at his leg angrily, as if it were his leg's fault for not limping again.

"My dear Watson…" Sherlock began quietly, dumbfounded. "I owe you…" He struggled for the words. "A thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected."

"Yes you did. Yes you did, you just planned on doing it again."

"Doing what again?"

"Making something happen."

Sherlock smiled. "Then I won't disappoint you. Let's go, the dogs await us."

"The dogs?"

"The press." Sherlock smiled mischievously, and signaled the two older men who waited silently down the hall. Mycroft and Lestrade walked quickly over to the elevator, and Sherlock pushed the button to call it.

"You sure anyone is even here yet?" John asked, glancing at his watch.

"We just walked through a building full of cleaning staff, officers, and journalists looking for a story. If people haven't been calling, then my death must not have been as convincing as I thought." Sherlock smiled, and the elevator doors opened. "see?" he pointed outside, where several uniformed men were pushing back crowds of people with cameras and microphones and pads of paper from the doors.

"Ready, brother dear?" Mycroft asked, glaning at his watch.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock added, still grinning.

"Do behave. I have been out on a limb for you these past months."

"You aren't coming with us?" John asked.

"Oh heavens no. I can't be seen on anything but paper in these matters. I can't compromise my employment." Mycroft added, before turning and exiting out a long hallway.

"Forward, then." Lestrade added, leading the way out the doors. An explosion of noise hit the three men, and Lestrade had to almost scream to get the crowd's attention.

"Mr. Holmes and I are going to answer a few questions. Keep in mind that there is still information that is needed on everyone's part, so please be patient and know that you will get your full stories eventually. First question." He yelled.

"Is Mr. Holmes being charged with the kidnapping of the ambassador's children?" A voice called.

"No. Evidence has proven that Mr. Holmes involvement in the crime was impossible. He was kind enough to assist us in the recovery of the children, and we are all thankful. Next." Lestrade answered.

"How about charges against him for faking his death?"

"Under the circumstances, we are not filing charges at this time. We can't get into detail, but we can tell you that blackmail was involved. Next." Lestrade sounded bored already. Sherlock looked even border, and John imagined that he hated the idea that he wasn't being asked any questions at his own press conference.

"Mr. Holmes, how did you do it?"

Sherlock sighed and opened his mouth, clearly annoyed that this was the first question he was asked. "I had ma-"

"Sorry, but we can't tell you that. It would be against everybody's best interest." John cut him off.

"Why not?" various voiced asked.

"Yes, Doctor Watson. Why not?" Sherlock asked, dejected at having his story explained.

"Well we can't exactly have people running around faking their deaths, can we? Look, it's nothing personal, I'm sure Mr. Holmes would love to tell, you, but it's really not a good idea. Maybe later." John stepped back, flushed. "Next question."

"How are you feeling about all this doctor? It said on your blog that you believed him the entire time. This must be a very emotional time for you." A lady's voice asked.

"What do you mean 'for me'?" John asked defensively.

"That kind of information is irrelevant. Next question." Sherlock answered.

"Where have you been since you've been in hiding?"

"I have been in a sort of protection program under and undisclosed identity. In order to protect others, that is all I can tell you about that. Next." Sherlock rambled off, having obviously rehearsed the line.

"Do you plan on moving back in with Dr. Watson?"

"Of course." Both men answered, and then flushed.

"Will you two be resuming your previous occupation as consulting detectives?"

"I'm the detective. And he is-"

"His medical advisor and his assistant. And yes, we are." John interrupted. The crowd exploded again and Lestrade hushed them down.

"When can we expect you to begin your work?" A voice in the back asked. The two glanced at each other before turning to the rest of the crowd.

"Immediately."


	7. Chapter Seven: Sacrifice to a God

_**((To wynnleaf- I thought as much! I now have necessary written on the back of my hand. Oddly enough, my spell-check says that both are acceptable forms of spelling the word, but I'm going to take your word for it. I mean, now every time I look at the back of my hand I will think of you. And thank you so much for the reviews!))**_

"That was awful. This is awful." John commented, stretching out on their black beaten leather sofa. Sherlock paced around the room, agitated. John's new phone buzzed on the mantle-piece for the thousandth time that evening, and Sherlock snapped.

"Good god in heaven, leave us alone!" He yelled at the inanimate object, before picking it up and hurling it into the kitchen.

"What?" John asked loudly, annoyed and mildly angry. "Sherlock, that was a brand new phone!"

"I warned it." Sherlock quipped; satisfied with the silence of the broken piece of metal and plastic that had shattered so interestingly against the cupboard doors. "This is ridiculous! Tons of calls for interviews, but not a single case offered!" Sherlock threw himself down in his seat, fidgeting with his limbs.

"You're seriously craving a case right now?" John asked, sitting up and rubbing his face.

"No."

"But you just said."

"So what?" Sherlock was being as irritating as ever.

"I give up." John laid back down on the sofa.

"I want something to do. I've been basically useless for far too long."

"Grin and bear it like the rest of us." John sighed.

"God! This is torture! The only places I've been in eighteen months is this empty flat,"

"It's not empty." John interrupted.

"The police station, and Mycroft's dull summer home!" Sherlock continued. "and it is empty of almost all my things."

"You can get more clothes and more… science… stuff. Besides, you've been to the hospital." John argued, feeling a headache growing already.

"I can't do it. This is ridiculous. We both need air. We're going out. And you better not have a date." Sherlock threw a look at him.

"Even if I did, it's not like I'd be able to call and cancel. Or confirm, for that matter." John stared at his broken mobile.

"Excellent excuse, John. Brilliant!" Sherlock cried, taking his silent phone, also a newer model, out of his pocket. "Call off the guards, Mycroft. We're leaving for a bit." He was silent for a minute, listening. "Of course it's absolutely necessary. John's phone is broken, and he needs a new one. No no," He shot a smile at John. "I'll cover it." Sherlock clicked his phone off and smiled widely at John. "Coming? It is your phone we're replacing. Maybe dinner afterwards? Or Bart's to visit the mortuary, see how lively the place is doing." Sherlock smiled, pulling on his bloody coat.

"Fine, but only if you get a new coat." John said, getting up and pulling on hi shoes.

"What's wrong with this one?" Sherlock frowned, turning to look in the mirror.

"It's stained with your blood!" John shouted, looking toward the celing.

"I like this coat."

"We'll get one just like it. Or are we not going now?" John asked. Sherlock scowled and pulled his coat off, leaving it on the floor and walking across the room to the door.

"guess I'll bring it down to the bin then." John grumbled, moving to pick it up.

"No! No, I'd like to keep it. I'll get another coat but I'd like to try and clean that one. It's worked very well for me, all these years." Sherlock admitted quietly. John picked it up off the floor and set it across Sherlock's chair gently. He worried about Sherlock. It wasn't like him to get sentimental about things. They hailed a cab outside, and left. John was calmly content with finally leaving their tiny flat, while Sherlock's foot jumped up and down with rapid impatience.

"Sherlock, I've been meaning to ask you…" John started.

"About?" Sherlock stared out the window.

"They never found Moriarty's body. You said a few days ago that he shot himself in front of you. Why didn't anyone find a body?" Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"John…" Sherlock trailed off, and fixed John with a pointed look. John gulped inwardly.

"We don't know, do we?"

"Not yet."

She was in the flat when they got back at 11:00 that night. Sherlock had made it up the steps to their open door early, his smile falling from his face immediately as he saw her sitting on the couch with a wet and slightly bloody towel was pressed to her head. John, also smiling, almost ran into him at the door.

"What?" John asked, staring at the girl who sat on their sofa.

"John, her head." Sherlock reminded the doctor. John nodded once before running to his room to grab his extensive medical kit. "Who let you in?" He asked her, stepping closer warily. The girl looked up at him, not frightened or confused, but searching his face frantically for some kinda of recollection.

"The older woman downstairs. Mrs. Hudson." The girl concentrated on the words as if they were hard to grasp. "Sorry, head hurts." The girl closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

"Not like her to leave a hurt girl alone." Sherlock pressed, not wanting the girl to fall asleep is she did have a concussion.

"She didn't want to come up here. She wanted me to stay down there and wait with her but… I needed to come here." The girls eyebrows furrowed. John rushed into the room and knelt beside her, gently searching the left side of her head.

"It's a deep cut. It's certainly going to need stiches. What happened?" John asked, pressing a bandage to the blonde girl's head. She was tall. Taller than John, but if they were standing side by side they themselves would hardly notice. Her blonde hair and her paper white neck had been crusted over with dried blood.

"I don't know. I woke up in an alley with my head pounding." She glanced at John with sea-blue eyes. "Who are you?" She asked, searching John's face like she had searched Sherlock's only moments before.

"I think that's a question we should be asking you." John told her gently, but with authority.

"I don't know." she answered.

"What?" John asked, turning to the tall man that towered over them as if hoping he would explain.

"I woke up and, my head hurt, and it took a while but I stood up and came here. I know you're supposed to ask questions to people with head injuries, so I asked myself some… I can't remember. I can't remember anything about me. I thought maybe you would be able to help?" She asked looking to both of them, as if trying to place her finger on where she knew them from.

"My name is John. This is Sherlock Holmes." John answered, gesturing first to himself, then to Sherlock.

"You're 18-20, American. You used to have an unnatural hair color, but it got too much work and you bleached it. Luckily you were blonde from birth so the bleached hair wasn't so awful to look at. You don't sleep well at night. Right handed. You've played the flute some years ago, but not for very long. You play other instruments too. Drums, perhaps. You-"

"So you do know me?" She interrupted Sherlock, mid-rant.

"No. We've never met before."

"Oh. Damn." The girl accepted this calmly. "Can you stich me here doctor? I don't want to walk to a hospital."

"We can get you a cab."

"I don't trust taxi drivers." She answered him.

Sherlock smiled. "I don't blame you."

"How did you know I was a doctor?" John asked, turning to look at the girl. She sighed.

"You're a solider too, right? But not for a long time. When you first walked in, you looked quickly at me then when you saw it was only my head, you studied it like you were trying to see how much pain I was in and how serious a wound it was. Then instead of checking me out himself, he asked you to do it. You keep a really extensive first aid kit, and some of the things in there are regular store bought supplies. Some of it you had to have nicked from a hospital. But that's just the doctor part. The other things in there are in military packages. Were you a doctor in the army?" the girl asked, looking at him with hopeful eyes. John stared at her, then back to Sherlock with utter shock.

Sherlock frowned. "Stich her up, John. Then let her rest. But she shouldn't go to sleep. " John nodded and got to work on the perfectly calm young girl. She flinched at the sight of the needle.

"Sorry," John said, pulling the needle through the skin on the side of her head.

"It's okay. They just scare me." She answered, smiling warmly at him. John forced a somewhat friendly smile back at her. He finished stitching her up and handed her a small blanket to wrap around herself.

"You really should be at a proper hospital." John encouraged her.

"But I need your help. Mrs. Hudson said you two could help me." The girl insisted urgently. "I can't go to a hospital. I know it."

"Yes but how, how do you know it?" Sherlock asked, pressing the girl for more.

"I don't know. I just… I can't. Please don't make me go there." She pleaded.

"Alright, alright. Don't get worked up, just rest for a bit and try not to fall asleep." John shushed her, and led Sherlock out of their den and into the kitchen.

"How the hell did she do that? She did what you did. She… deducted." John shuddered.

"She isn't that good. Clever, yes. Better than you, probably. But not as good as me." Sherlock replied, looking at her stretched out on the couch. "Isn' t much of a case if she can't give us any information. I don't know why you're letting her stay."

"She said she felt like she needed us. Do you think she knows who we are?" John asked, turning around to look back at her as well.

"Let's ask. Miss," Sherlock started, walking around john and standing over the girl again. "Do you have any idea who we are, or what we do?"

"No. I feel like I should, but I don't. I mean, I know you're names and that he's a doctor and you're a genius but other than that I can't say I do." She answered.

"Tell me how you worked out I was a genius." Sherlock asked, amused.

"You're stuff, here. Some of it's really organized, but the other stuff is just tossed about like it doesn't matter if you file it or have a certain place for it because you'll remember exactly where it is. He was in the army so that means he had some discipline training. He's also a doctor which means he's most likely to keep his things neat. That means the mess is most likely yours. There's music, some half written, so you can compose. There are books that I can't begin to understand on your shelves, and some of them are in stacks on your desk. The most brilliant men are often the most messy, so…" The girl trailed off, glancing at the detective to see if she was correct.

"But before you got here, you knew nothing about us?" Sherlock asked grimly.

"Not that I know of." She replied honestly.

"Just one more thing, then you can rest. How did you know to come here, to 221B?"

"Oh, I had a card in my pocket. Someone must've gave it to me before I got hit. It had this address on it so I assumed that the 'SH' was for me. Then, when he told me your name I thought that maybe you two knew me and I had the car by accident." She explained, pulling a crumpled hallmark car out of her jeans pocket. The front had a large picture of a present with glittering confetti on it. She handed it to Sherlock, who opened it, and immediately turned white.

"John." He said, and held out the card for the doctor to read:

_SH,_

_ Left a present for you at 221b. Can't wait until you get the surprise!_

_ XOXO_

_ JM_

_**((SO EXCITED FOR THE NEXT FEW CHAPTERS! –Malice))**_


	8. Chapter Eight: The Puzzle Box

"We need to take her to Mycroft." John explained, grabbing at his coat. He reached over and shook the girl awake. "No sleeping, remember? We have to make sure there isn't any damage. Come on, we're taking you to someone who can help."

"How can Mycroft help her?" Sherlock asked, staring grimly into the fire from his chair. The fire danced, casting dark shadows onto his angular face.

"He can find out who she is. He can keep her safe. Get her to her family." John stared at him. "Seriously, Sherlock. How can you not see how he can help?"

"If this is really him, then he's thought of going to Mycroft. It would be a waste of time. Whoever she is, she is blocked from every source besides us and him. Besides, he meant for her to come here." Sherlock stared at John and waited for the thought to visibly pass over John's face.

"He did that to her? Hit her hard enough to make her forget everything?" John asked. "How could he be sure that it would work? That she would forget?"

"Most likely sedated her beforehand. Gave her a sort of drug, too. Something to wipe out almost everything. The blow to the head could've only helped it along." Sherlock explained coldly, lost in thought.

"She's American. Maybe she was on holiday with her family, or friends? They'll have to come looking for her." John argued desperately.

"Maybe, but not likely." The girl offered from the sofa. The two men glared at her.

"How do you figure?" John asked.

"Tell me what's going on first." The girl sat up and stared steadily at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not stupid, I know that. He just said that someone wiped my memory. You say 'he' and 'him' like you know who it is and you sound terrified. You're talking like my being here is really bad. I want to know why, and I want to know who you think did this to me." The girl stood her ground. John moved to open his mouth, but Sherlock stopped him.

"Don't play her power game, John. I know why she thinks it wasn't on holiday." Sherlock said.

"Fine, tell me then."

"We talked too much in front of her. We let on he was dangerous and could block records. We admitted he was clever and dangerous right in front of her. If what we say is true, she would think he's too clever to leave people in London looking for her. She knows he can do things that require strings to be pulled, so who's to say she wasn't abducted right from her own country?" Sherlock smirked at the girl, and her face fell.

"We should talk somewhere else then?" John asked.

"No. She's right. She deserves to know. John, hand her your laptop." Sherlock sat back in his chair and resumed to stare into the fire.

"What my laptop, why?" John frowned.

"I've got it here. What do I do now?" the girl asked. John looked back to the girl and realized she had taken his laptop off the desk immediately after Sherlock mentioned it.

"Look up 'the blog of John Watson' and read all the entries. I'll fill you in after that." Sherlock continued.

"Don't mind me, it's only my bloody computer and my bloody blog." John mumbled to himself, crashing down into his chair, irritated and worried. The three sat in a grim silence, only interrupted by an occasional laugh or gasp from the girl on the couch. John timed her reactions perfectly, and watched with fascination as she came up to the second video on his blog. "Don't watch that one." John warned her. She nodded, and scrolled past it. "Here." he said as she was about to click play on the last entry. John handed the girl a pair of headphones. The girl took them, slightly confused, and played the video as the sound reached only her ears. Her expression remained concentrated and studying the entire clip, until she finally took the headphones out and closed the computer.

"Okay." She said at last. "Explain."

"I'm not fake and I'm not dead." Sherlock stated simply.

"I got that much. So this Richard Brooke guy wasn't real?"

"No."

"Why'd you jump then?" she asked. Sherlock was silent.

"Blackmail." John offered for him. The girl nodded.

"You've only just got back a week or two ago. You were gone for so long. Why?" She asked.

"How do you know that?" john asked, exhaustion beginning to take a hold of him.

"The last entry date of your blog was a year and a half ago."

"Yes, but how did you know he only just got back?"

"You." She said. John grew quiet. He didn't need her to explain that he gave himself away when it came to Sherlock. People had always been able to see that. "I still don't know what this has to do with me." She continued impatiently.

"Up until now, I thought my blackmailer,"

"Moriarty." The girl confirmed. Sherlock nodded.

"Up until now I thought him to be dead." Sherlock explained. "I thought I saw him shoot himself in the head before my…" Sherlock gestured offhandedly.

"But… they would've mentioned a body if he were dead?" She asked.

"Well they never confirmed if he was dead or not. He just went missing. Some reporter told the police that the last time Richard Brooke was seen was when Sherlock and I ran after him, and then he just went missing. Never turned up again." John added.

"Again, where the hell do I come in in all this?" She asked, getting angry.

"James Moriarty." Sherlock growled.

"JM." The girl sighed, and sat back. "JM stands for James Moriarty. I'm the surprise for you at 221B."

"It would seem so. You're clever,"

"But not like you." The girl protested.

"No, but more than most. He would've known that like we do. He likes clever." Sherlock's expression darkened. "And he knows I do too."

"I'm basically too smart for my own good? Fantastic." The girl moaned. John smiled. "What am I supposed to do then? This guy… he wants me here because I'm a puzzle, right? He's playing games with you. What does that mean?"

"It means that we're going to have to figure out who you are on his terms, by his rules, or no doubt he'll kill you." Sherlock stated. The girl bit her lip and closed her eyes.

"No." John said. The other two looked at him, surprised. "No. Sherlock. Every time we play his games, every time we play by his rules, something bad happens. People have died because of him."

"That's what people do." The girl scoffed. The two men stiffened and stared at her. She had no idea of the gravity of her comment. "Look, this is about him and you, and for some reason he thinks I'm going to be valuable to you at some point. If you don't play his game, I die, and whatever use I was to you wouldn't have mattered."

"No. I'm sorry, but no. We can't help you." John nodded once, firm and condemning.

"John. If not her, then eventually it will be someone else. If anything, we're lucky she's a stranger." Sherlock argued. John shook his head. "What about Mrs. Hudson next? He's used you twice, who's to say he wont use her too? Or maybe someone new, like Harriett?" John's head snapped up, his jaw slack.

"She's a safer bet. He isn't going to let this end and you know it." Sherlock answered. John nodded, defeated.

"What are we going to do with her? She can't stay here." John said, refusing to look at the young girl.

"Why not?"

"Are you serious?" the girl asked, obvious delight in her voice.

"We don't have any other choice."

"We'll have other cases."

"She will come along."

"A kid?"

"No choice. We can't have the newspapers knowing that we're solving cases with an abducted hostage, so we'll only tell those who absolutely need to know. Mycroft, Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson can look after her when we can't." Sherlock thought out loud.

" 'She' has a name." the girl protested.

"Care to tell us what it is?" Sherlock asked, amused. The girl fumed on the couch.

"We have to call her something." John added.

"I'm right here." She mumbled to herself.

"Something. It has a nice ring to it, but I doubt it will get less stares than 'Sherlock Holmes'." The detective smiled.

"Kid?" John offered

"No. I will not be called kid. That is not happening."

"Addie." Sherlock nodded once. John nodded, fine with the name.

"I'm not a dog, you know. You can't just name me like one."

"Not Addie, then?" Sherlock turned to her, waiting for a murmur of protest.

"No, Addie is fine, but I refuse to live here if I get treated like a dog."

"Down, girl." John told her with obvious glee written across his face.


	9. Chapter Nine: Ring Leaders

"Oh. Right. Ah, good morning." John stuttered, walking into their sitting room wearing his pajamas and robe and noticing the tall girl leaning forward on the kitchen table. Her hair, already messy before they lent her their shower the night before, was now sticking out in all directions, frizzing at the ends and curling in some places, and generally covering most of her face. She wore the same clothes as she had the night before. She had sat in John's room alone for two hours wrapped only in a large blanket as Mrs. Hudson washed away the blood from her jeans and black tee shirt. Her lips were puffy as well as her cheeks, and the seam of the couch she slept on was faintly imprinted on her forehead. She grunted a positive reply at John and scratched the back of her neck. "So how are you feeling?" john asked. The girl looked up with deep blue-grey eyes and opened her mouth to answer. She hesitated, and took a quick glance behind John before answering.

"Fine. A bit of a headache but I feel fine." She stared at a spot behind John. John turned, and blinked in surprise.

"Mycroft called. Sent a car for me." Sherlock stood in the doorway to the flat, pulling a jacket over a dark blue button up. "I expect he'll send one for you two in a few hours."

"Shouldn't I come with you?" John asked, moving toward his room to change quickly.

"No, I need to speak to my brother in private. Watch the kid." Sherlock instructed before striding down the stairs and out the door to the awaiting signature black car. John frowned and made his way back to the kitchen.

"So why did you lie?" John asked, glancing quickly at the girl. To his surprise, she wasn't shocked that he had seen through her attempt to appear fine.

"Didn't seem like something you guys actually wanted to hear about." She shrugged.

"I'm a doctor, remember?" John prodded.

"Oh, I forgot. You need me alive. Well, I feel lost. I feel completely out of place and uncomfortable. Not only because I'm a girl in two older men's apartment, or that because I have no where else to go, but also because I can't even introduce myself to the two people who at least have a reason to want me alive." She said, heavily veiling her anger and frustration with a curtain of calm. "That, and my head really hurts, but that's expected." She added dryly. John pursed his lips.

"I've got some pills that will help that?" John offered feebly. He felt bad about what he had said last night, refusing to help her, but he wasn't going to apologize for trying to be rational. She looked up at him.

"I'll take a few, thanks…" She murmured. "Huh. I, ah… I'm not sure what to call you" She grinned at him sheepishly through her hair.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I don't know you well enough to call you John, and you aren't old enough to be a Mr. Watson. To call you 'John Watson' makes me sound like and alien or something." She explained with the reasoning of a girl of her age, instead of the analytical thought process she had shown previously. John lingered on the thought momentarily before shrugging.

"Well, seeing as how we don't know your real name, I'd say it's okay if you don't know what to call me." He paused. "Do you know what to call him?" He gestured towards the door.

"Who, Sherlock?" She asked. "Yeah. Sherlock." She said, giving him an amused stare.

"How come you can call him by his name easily?"

"He has a weird name. Any form of his name would be weird. Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock, Holmes, De-tec-tive…" She played with the last word, separating each syllable from the last. "None of it sounds completely normal. I mean, you've never thought about his name, doc?" She hit the table with her palm. "I like that. Doc."

"No. Not happening." John protested. The girl rolled her eyes.

"Fine."

"And I haven't thought about his name." John added.

"Suuuure." The girl scoffed, and sat down in John's chair by the fireplace.

"That's my seat." John added calmly. Without hesitation, the girl got up and pointed to Sherlock's chair as if asking permission.

"Sherlock's, but you can if you want." John answered. She nodded and sat down in the chair. John disappeared in the bathroom before returning with two small blue pills and handing her a glass of water. She murmured a thank you, and gulped them down effortlessly.

"So, what happens now, doctor?" She asked.

"You're smart. You tell me." John sat back and waited.

"I'm thinking on a smaller scale. I mean what do I do while we wait for this guy to make his move? Are we really not going to try to figure out who I am?"

"Oh. Well, ah. You hang about here. Talk with Mrs. Hudson. Watch Telly. Read, maybe. I guess you like reading." John blinked and stretched his neck.

"Sherlock said I was going to go with you places."

"Sherlock isn't in charge of you."

"_No one_ is in charge of me John Watson. Don't forget that." She stared at the doctor, calm and collected, but an edge of venom in her voice. She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. "Ugh. That was weird. Didn't mean to get angry." She offered without an apology.

"Right. Well, you should go fix yourself up with some breakfast and borrow a comb or something from Mrs. Hudson." John growled, getting up from his seat and slamming the door to his room behind him. He breathed in deeply, trying to control himself. He was uncomfortable in every way possible. He had no idea how long she was going ot be staying, or what danger she was brining into their flat. He didn't understand why they couldn't just find out who she was and send her back. Frankly, he didn't like her. She was rude and young, much too young to hang about John. He groaned inwardly as the thought of what the press would say if they caught her following the two around on cases and living in the same flat as them.

"You've got a text!" The girl called from the chair.

"Just leave it, thanks." He yelled back. He really didn't want to go back in there with her unless the text was from-

"It's from Sherlock." Damn.

"Hold on." John grumbled loudly. He dressed himself quickly and walked out to find that she had brushed out her hair and pulled it up in a short ponytail. "Jesus, how old are you?" He asked, looking at her closly. He cheeks were round and small traces of older acne scars were hidden high up on her hairline. He reached out and took the phone from her.

_Car is coming early. Got our first hint about Addie. –SH_

"I don't know, remember?" Addie asked.

"Hmm?"

"You asked how old I was."

"Oh. Right. Sorry, got distracted."

"I'm guessing around 20. Maybe 19… what does the text say?" She asked, standing up and looking down at the phone. "Oh."

"You can read upside-down pretty well." John commented.

"Yeah… Probably backwards too." She muttered. "You think I'm dyslexic?"

"Probably not, if you like to read."

"True. Stupid of me."

"We had better go. The car is here." John started for the door, slipping quickly into his shoes.

"Do you have an extra pair of those?" She stopped him, and pointed to his feet.

"What, shoes?"

"Yeah. All I've got are sandals, and it looks cold outside." She shuffled her feet nervously.

"I… I don't think they would fit you." John stuttered.

"Don't worry about it." She said gruffly before pushing past him and starting down the stairs. John cursed to himself, dreading however long she was going to be there. The car ride was long and awkward. The girl kept squinting out the window and rubbing her hands for warmth. John immediately regretted not at least getting her a better jacket than the thin black cotton one she was pulling tightly around her. They pulled up to a long grey building, and the girl followed John through the halls.

"Been here before?" she asked quietly.

"Once, when I first met Mycroft. I didn't think he picked the same places twice, but maybe it didn't matter all that much." He answered. He spotted three figures up ahead, and picked up his pace just slightly, earger to not be alone with the young intruder for much longer.

"John, Addie." Sherlock acknowledged.

"Hello Mycroft." John said politely, nodding his hello to Sherlock silently. The three men looked to the girl before them, who stared back.

"Oh, that's what you guys named me. Right. Hi…" She said awkwardly.

"What are you thinking?" Mycroft seemed outraged. "I understand how you two work. Really, I do. Sherlock is the cold calculating detective while you are the caring doctor…" Addie laughed, and Mycroft paused to stare at her. "Did something I say amuse you?" He asked, annoyed. Her eyes grew wide, and she looked shocked.

"I thought you were joking. Him, the caring doctor? He's the one who pushed for me to die alone on the streets last night." Addie pointed at john, confused.

"That's not fair." John turned red.

"_I_ know it's not fair, It's my problem. But it's true." She snapped back at him. Mycroft stred at the two, amused.

"Ah, I see. So it was Sherlock that pressed for you to stay. Well, I am a bit surprised, but still. She can't stay with you." Mycroft told them sternly, as if scolding two young boys. "She is much too dangerous."

"With all due respect, _sir_, you don't even know me." She told him calmly. The room was silent for a moment, as the three men regarded the girl in shock. John rocked on his heels as silence passed before he rolled his eyes and took initiative.

"This is… well, we're calling her Addie, but this is the girl who showed up at our flat last night." John introduced the girl to Mycroft. "Addie, this is Mycroft Holmes. He works with government matters." John concluded. Addie smiled, and held out her hand to the older gentleman. Mycroft took it and shook it quickly.

"You've been losing weight. What diet are you on?" She asked innocently. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in amusement, and Mycroft smiled. John's brow furrowed, and his jaw sagged slightly.

"How on earth did you know he lost weight?" john asked, astounded.

"Wait, you mean you've met him before and you don't even know that?" Addie looked at him, completely mortified.

"Of course I know, but how can you?"

"His clothes don't fit. Most people wear clothes out of their size range, true. But his suit is expensive, and most likely tailored to fit him." She said, relieved.

"That's all you see?" Sherlock asked. Addie nodded, letting go of Mycroft;s hand.

"Why? What did I miss?"

"I know what diet he's on by the date he bought the suit relative to his current weight, the crumbs on his sleeve and the instep of his shoes." Sherlock stated. The girl's eyebrows raised and she smiled wide enough for john to make out the dimple on the right side of her cheek.

"That's freaking amazing."

"That's usually John's line."

"I'm quicker than John."

"Oi, still right here." John cut in. "Sherlock, can you please tell us about the hint?" He asked, exasperated already.

"What? Oh, right." He handed a small white box to the tall blonde girl. "This was addressed to you."

"how do you know?" She asked, taking the top off the box and unfolding the tissue paper in it.

"He called you 'blondie'." Sherlock explained, tapping on the lid of the box that she held between her ring finger and pinky. The girl fumble with the package for a minute, before turning the lid over and reading the small black pen that was written on the bottom.

_To Clever Ol' Blondie,_

_ Oh the things I would choke around your neck… This isn't one of mine._

_ To SH and JW,_

_ Enjoying my gift to you? Hope it didn't get too damaged in the delivery. _

_ -JM_

Addie looked in the box and pulled out a circular gold ring on a long necklace chain. The ring looked worn, and was missing two of the purple stones that were set in the claspings.

"What does it mean?" John asked.

"I think it means that it's mine." The girl held the ring in front of her, searching for some small clue.

"How about the part of the message that was addressed to us? Was there another package?" John turned to Sherlock, confused.

"No." Sherlock answered, before nodding toward the girl pointedly. John's stomach dropped as he realized that the young girl in front of him had been referred to as a gift that can be damaged. He felt sick. Addie put the necklace on and toyed with the ring absently.

"Remember anything?" Sherlock asked, not sounding hopeful.

"No. I just have a headache." She replied, rubbing her temples.

"We should get you home, you were just attacked a few hours ago." John put a hand on her shoulder, and smiled faintly.

"Why the sudden change in mood?" She asked warily.

"I don't know what you're talking about." John smiled. She smiled back, before wincing slightly at her pounding head.

"Right. So, Mycroft, will you help me or not?" Sherlock turned to his brother. Mycroft stared at the girl before nodding and waving his hand.

"Don't go overboard." The older man said before turning to Addie and smiling. "And you, Miss Addie. Be careful." He smiled, bowing his head and turning to leave them.

"What was that about?" John asked, hurrying to catch up with Sherlock who had promptly turned and began making his way back to the black car that awaited them.

"She need's clothes, an I.D., a phone, supplies. It's a little out of our means at the moment."

"We have money." John protested.

"An I.D., again. And her phone can't be traced by anyone. I needed Mycroft." Sherlock frowned at the thought.

"I get a phone?" Addie piped up.

"It would seem so." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Do I get to come with you on cases? John said I had to stay at your flat." She asked excitedly. John closed his eyes, hearing the childishness in her voice, and thinking she was much too young to be in any part of all this.

"If you can keep up with us. I don't want you to stay at the flat with only Mrs. Hudson. You'll drive her insane if you ever get as bored as I do." Sherlock informed her. John smirked, but he knew the real reason Sherlock didn't want her at the flat alone with Mrs. Hudson. If someone wanted Addie dead, they would have no problem killing Mrs. Hudson to get to her.

"What happens when you get bored?" Addie asked, curious.

"He takes in strays with bumps on their head." John smiled.


	10. Chapter Ten: Passing the Time

"No." John said sternly. "Absolutely not." John was talking into the phone.

"Is that Sherlock?" Addie asked from the couch. She sat upside-down, trying to pull her short hair close enough to her mouth to chew on. "What am I saying? Of course it's Sherlock. Why are you mad at him? What did he do now?" John closed his eyes.

"Addie, shut up I'm trying to listen." John turned his attention back to the phone. "No, Sherlock. We can't leave the house. It's too late in the afternoon, and there are press outside our door. If they catch sight of A-" Addie grabbed the phone from him.

"Is there a cab waiting?... Okay… No, if he refuses I'll come without him. Okay. Wait, where? Why? Where are you? I'm just-" Addie took the phone form here ear and frowned at it. "He hung up on me."

"You were probably annoying the hell out of him." John said, irritated as he took his phone back from her roughly.

"I can't help it. I'm bored out of my mind." She argued. "I'll be better after this." She said, pulling on a new pair of sneakers. It had been a week and a half after they had received the necklace and the note, and the gold ring hung low around her neck as she bent down to tie her shoes. Much to john's surprise, she had been reluctant to accept the money to buy the things.

_"I don't want to be a burden."_ She had argued upon seeing the receipt for a few of the outfits she had picked out. John was taken aback at how much a few simple shirts and jeans had cost.

_"Well, clean up around the flat a bit and we can call it even."_ John remembered saying. She seemed relieved to have a condition, and agreed to it happily.

"No, you aren't going." John argued impatiently.

"I'm a grown adult, according to my fake identification. And apparently I'm some distant relative of Sherlock's, so I'm going to assume stubbornness runs in the family and tell you what I told Sherlock. I'm going. With or without you." She stood, and pulled on the heavy jacket that hung on the coat rack by the door.

"You know I can't let you go alone." John said through his teeth. Addie had been pushing Sherlock and John to their limits these past week, setting both of them completely on edge. Some days she was almost as mature as the two of them, and others she was downright childish to the point where Sherlock seemed like an adult. The past few days, John would wake up and find that Sherlock had beaten him to the punch and high-tailed it out of the flat hours earlier to avoid the girl altogether, and leaving John to stay in the flat with her until he got back. Today especially, she had been completely insufferable.

"I know." She smiled, before racing down the stairs.

"No, Addie, at least wait for me!" John called after her, grabbing his coat and racing down the stairs after her. She waited diligently at the door. "Okay, you know there are press out there. They know nothing about you, and it would be best if everything stayed that way for as long as it can. Do you understand?"

"Answer no questions, just get into the taxi." The girl nodded. "Anything, I just want to get out of that damn apartment." John nodded and put his hand on the doorknob.

"Wait just a moment?" She asked, tucking the rign on the chain into her shirt and out of sight. "Okay. Ready."

"Ah, you're here." Sherlock waited for them at the pair of double doors.

"Why are we in a hospital?" Addie asked, shrinking into herself. John half-smiled knowingly.

"Needed to get out of the house. Thought you might too." Sherlock turned and strode through the doors. "Hello, Molly." The small woman gasped, and her hands flew to her heart.

"She-Sherlock! You startled me." Molly smiled shakily. "Hello John. Hi…" Her brow furrowed, and Addie smiled.

"Addie. I'm Addie." The girl waved. "Sherlock, really, what are we doing here?" she asked, turning her attention to the tall detective who was studying a file that had been laying on the white counters.

"So how do you two know each other?" molly asked. Everyone heard the painful curiousity in Molly's voice, but they chose to ignore it. Addie looked to Sherlock, who nodded once at her.

"Family. He's been kind enough to help me out." Addie smiled, her answer vague but simple enough to calm Molly down.

"how many are going out today?" Sherlock asked, putting the paper down.

"Three." Molly answered, walking toward a door on the other side of the room.

"three what?" Addie turned to John, following Sherlock and Molly through the cold doorway.

"Bodies, I assume. Molly works in the mortuary." John told her. Addies eyes lit up, and John felt a familiar sickening feeling.

"Is he on a case? Did he just call us on a case?" Addie sounded overjoyed. John sighed, relieved.

"No, no. At least not one he needs any of our help on if he's coming to the mourge. No he's probably grabbing body parts for an experiment." Addie froze.

"Body parts?"

"Yeah. Once there was a severed head in the fridge." John was starting to have fun. "No doubt he assumed you would share some of his interest in it."

"No." Addie gasped, looking queasy as she watched Sherlock saw a large toe off a dead man. "My head hurts, and I feel like I'm going to be sick."

"Addie, John, grab a bag." Sherlock looked up at them just in time to see the door close behind the sickened girl.

"Please! John, I-"

"No! This isn't a debate, Addie. I don't care what you're going to do."

"You don't even know what I'm going to do!"

"You're going to experiment on Mrs. Hudson!"

"But not how you think!" Addie yelled. Sherlock could hear the frustration in her voice as she yelled. He opened the door to 221b Baker street to find the arguing downstairs in fron of the old woman who seemed powerless to stop their bickering.

"Addie, listen to your father." Sherlock joked. John glared at him, knowing the comment reall meant that he sounded old.

"Yes mother." Addie shot back at Sherlock. The tall man frowned and walked up the stairs. "Sherlock! Wait, can you please tell John that my experiment-"

"On Mrs. Hudson!"

"Only because you weren't home."

"Why weren't you home?" Sherlock asked, looking up from the chair he sat himself in. He studied John and immediately regretted asking. John was never much fun after a breakup.

"Groceries." John lied, mostly so Addie didn't know what he had been up to.

"Please, if it were just groceries you would have brought me. And that's not the point. It's a harmless experiment, john." Addie went back to her argument.

"Then why did you ask for a needle?"

"A sewing needle! I don't plan on sticking anybody with it! Bloody hell, John who do you think I am?"

"Why did you need Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, annoyed with all the yelling.

"I just needed someone with a pocket on the other side of the door to let me back in when I was done." Addie said with a heavy sigh.

"Wait, what?" john asked, confused.

"I'll do it." Sherlock offered.

"Great! Okay, move your chair over here, in front of the door. No no, not that close. Farther away. If it were a study, you know? Yeah like that." The girl said when Sherlock had seated himself in the middle of the room, facing the door.

"Okay. I was thinking earlier about how I would murder someone… What?" The two men had stared at her. John, horrified, and Sherlock unreadable as ever. "Oh shut up and listen. I was thinking about how I would make it look impossible. Now say I walked in, killed someone sitting in their study, and left, locking the door behind me. Police come later, and find the door locked form the inside. For some reason they rightly assume I did it, but realize that the door was locked from the inside, with the only key to the room in the victim's pocket. The question is…"

"How you did it." Sherlock answered patiently. Addie nodded, and picked up a spool of fishing wire from the table.

"Can I see one of your keys to the flat?" She asked the men. Sherlock handed her his. She thread the wire through the top hole in the head of the key and tied the end off, and let out the wire for a considerable length before cutting it, and threading the end through the needle. "Okay, so the trick is to lock to the door behind me and get the key in his pocket. If I place the key in the door, and walk over to you… Sherlock stay still okay?" She walked over to the tall man and stuck the needle through the outer pocket fabric. "If I thread it through there and, still holding on to the needle, walk through the door and close it behind me…" She closed the door. "All I would have to do is pull on my end of the string and…"

The string tightened slowly, losing slack until the key was pulled to the right and then out of the key hole. It jerked across the floor and then up sherlock's leg, and into his pocket. The fabric pulled twice toward the door. "Is it in his pocket?" She called.

"It is!" John said, amazed.

"Okay." She called from the other side of the locked door. John heard a small snap, and watched as the clear string slithered across the floor and under the doorway. "Did it work?" She asked.

"How fun." Sherlock smiled, taking his key out of his pocket and examining it. "If you were careful enough to leave no other evidence behind, you could get away with the perfect murder."

"You thought of that all by yourself?" John asked, looking at her sillouette through the stained glass of their door.

"I don't think so. I think I read it in a book a long time ago. So can you guys let me in?" She called. The two turned to each other and smiled.

"Hello?" she called again, after hearing no answer.

"Lestrade called." Sherlock said, pulling on his scarf. John looked up from his laptop, and Addie looked up from her book.

"Really? Took him long enough." John said, pulling on his jacket.

"I think he's still angry. Besides, we've been busy enough without him." Sherlock said, thinking about the cases they've had in the past few weeks.

"I hate that you called me 'the kid' in front of that reporter." Addie tossed the comment at John. Sherlock smiled. Addie had been following them around on cases, usually assuming a false identity as their new assistant. Their last case, the suspect had ran right into where Addie was waiting for Sherlock and john to emerge, and she had been able to trip him and hold him down until the two had caught up with him. Press had been flocking to wherever the detective went lately, making it easy for him to be spotted by most of the criminals he chased after.

"Well, no press will be here. No one to chase either."

"She isn't coming on this one, Sherlock."

"Of course she is. The last note came only yesterday." Sherlock looked toward the mantle of their fireplace, where a piece of rose quartz crystal the size of a fist sat between the skull and knife. The note that crashed through the window along with the rock at two am had simply read:

_'Addie' huh? I liked blondie better._

_Hope your head doesn't hurt too bad. _

_ -JM_

Under the dull pink rock, sat a printed out fax photo of a brown and white dog laying on some non-descript grey-blue carpet. All three could tell that the dog was a small cocker spaniel, but other than that, it could've been any other dog. It was found taped to their door, with no note.

"Guys, what's going on?" Addie asked, checking her phone that was enclosed in a bulky military grade, bright white case, courtesy Mycroft. "It's 10:00 at night. Are we going out?"

"We have a case from Scotland Yard." Sherlock explained. "And yes, we're going out. I think it will be fun to watch a 'kid' at work."

"Fun for the or fun for you?" Addie asked, yawning. John smiled. It was one of her more mature, stoic moods.

"Yes." Sherlock less than answered, leading the two out of the flat, and hailing a cab. They arrived shortly, the cab stopping a few dark shops before the flashing lights and fluorescent yellow crime scene tape. Sally Donovan greeted them, as usual, at the tape.

"Look who it is. Did he really call you on or did you just decide on yourself to come and bother us?" She asked, cocking out here hip. Addie rolled her eyes and checked her phone again.

"Sir," Addie put on her assistant act. "If this is a waste of time I suggest…"

"He called, sally." John said sternly. Donovan shied away from John.

"Go on then." She told the group. "You," She stopped Addie, and the two men waited a few paces in front of her. "You should make different friends. They have a habit of breaking the people around them." Addie stared at her before stepping around her silently and standing next to John and Sherlock, before fixing a pointed look in the other woman's direction.

"Please yourself, kid." The woman muttered, before raising the radio to her mouth. "Freak and guests, on their way."

"Thank you so much, Bitch and friends." Addie called over her shoulder. John hurried the girl away from Donovan and toward the alley that the officers directed them toward.

"What the hell was that?" John asked, leading Addie forward by her upper arm.

"She's rude, assuming, and completely stupid." She argued.

"My reasoning exactly." Sherlock added.

"You are not helping. Addie, you can't insult police like that."

"Sherlock does."

"Sherlock's an idiot. I expect that from him. Not from you." Sherlock smiled, and flipped up his coat collar before addressing the police officers they approached.

"Lestrade…" Sherlock started. After a few minutes of talking, Addie was already bored and tuning them out. She freely admitted she was smarter than almost everyone, but she knew she wasn't at Sherlock's, or even John's level quite yet. Maybe she could spot things and make connections John couldn't, but John had years of experience on her, both in age and with following around a consulting detective. She spotted a rat-like man bending over a corpse, and she watched intently, seeing if she could learn anything by applying the methods that Sherlock had mentioned to her during the times when his business was painfully slow.

"Stop! What the hell are you doing?" She asked, staring at the man in disbelief.

"What?" Anderson asked, looking startled.

"You just moved evidence around so you could squat down next to a body. The body is dead, mate, and you probably just contaminated the easiest bet you had at catching whoever did it." She said, looking him over. "And what sort of person has to kneel with their leg down next to a body? Your leg is completely fine, as is your back." Anderson flushed red, and spoke with her through his two rodent front teeth.

"Oh, joy. Another one."

"She's right, Anderson. The chalk you just smeared into the pavement was your biggest piece of evidence. Don't worry, though. It's just going to take a little longer to convict him." Sherlock stood behind addie and looked over the body. "This case doesn't require my help. You know who the killer is and you are correct. Why did you call?" he turned to Lestrade, and started talking again. Addie studied the body again, walking circles around it. She had no idea who the killer was, so she decided to try her luck with it on her own. She squatted down next to the head, and looked over his features. He was young. Maybe younger than her. It was hard to tell with the brick outline covering his face.

A passing forensics member handed her a pair of latex gloves as he passed, earphones in and his head bobbing to the music. Addie turned to thank him, but he had already strolled past the building towards the tape with his hat pulled low over his eyes. She forgot about him almost instantly. She put the gloves on, and looked closer to the body. She couldn't tell if there was a small folded piece of paper near his mouth, or if it was a tooth. If it was a tooth, it was a front tooth, and the body wasn't missing any teeth. She reached out a hand to pick it up, when a gloved hand clasped painfully around her arm and dragged her up.

"What the hell do you-" Addie pushed the man against the brick wall behind him and began choking him with the back of her arm. Her eyes were shut tightly, and her other hand was keeping the choking man's arm from grabbing at her own throat and hair.

"Jesus Christ get her off of him!"

"Hey!"

"Addie let him go!"

People were yelling and pulling her off him. She fought against them, thrashing wildly. Someone hugged her around her arms and shoulders tightly.

""Addie! Addie it's me!" John yelled in her ear. She immediately stopped kicking and relaxed against his death grip, breathing heavily. Anderson walked up to her and began shouting at them.

"You decide to bring this crazy bitch here and-"

"You frightened her! You started all of this!" John yelled back, letting go of Addie and waving his arm around in a grand gesture.

"Don't blame this on me! You're the idiot, not me! You and that psychopath were bad enough, but now-"

John Watson wrapped his arms around Addie again as Anderson scrambled backwards on the ground, his nose broken in two places. Addie shrugged the doctor off, and examined her right hand.

"I actually busted my knuckle open." She murmured. "Ow," She winced.

"That happens when there is an open wound." Sherlock stood next to the two and began hurrying them away from the crime scene. "I'll talk with you later, Lestrade."

"No, it's my head." Addie complained, stopping and putting both hands to her forehead. "Ow. Oh god…" She whispered. Suddenly, she collapsed to the floor, a weak and painful scream escaping her lips. John and Sherlock knelt quickly to the ground before she passed out completely.


End file.
